Waiting For You To Come Home
by dynamiteScribbler
Summary: Alright, my first ever fic, written as a Christmas present to a friend. John hasn't been the same since Sherlock's been gone. Things change when he gets an unexpected visitor one night.


John had no idea how long had passed. What had it been, five months? Six? What the hell did it matter? Since that day, those moments, John had never been so alone. John had no idea how time kept passing.

It had begun with tears, the wracking, airless gasps. He'd be doubled over in his seat, wrapping himself in his own arms, trying to keep his throbbing chest intact. Cold toes curling against the chilled floor while he was falling apart in bits of cries and fragments of sobs. For days, weeks, the world was nothing but the blurred shapes of thei- His. His livingroom. He couldn't leave the flat, couldn't imagine the thought of coming back to it again since the first time he'd come home to it empty, always wanting, and always finding it cold and alone and all-encompassing.

And then he'd felt nothing.

He'd woken up one day to the familiar dried trails of tears on his face, and for some reason they never returned. Everything was the same, and yet nothing was. The flat was cold. It was a cave, an empty cavern to echo the hollow feeling in his chest. He didn't feel. Sure, he didn't hurt, but hurting had to have been better than whatever this was, not that John noticed. He was a ghost, a shell, drifting to his office where ogling patients kept the prying questions in their eyes to themselves while he figured out what was wrong with them, to the store for milk since after the first few weeks Mrs. Hudson had refused to go for him, and back home.

Except it wasn't home. Nothing as disheartening and grievous as that could be considered as such, but it was all that was left. Every evening, expecting to open the door and be sprung upon by an excited man in his pajamas, one who hadn't changed all day, or to be hushed harshly for opening the door just too noisily, was met with a sense of hollow, but expected, disappointment.

That was when the hallucinations had started. The first time it had happened, it had sent John off on a race through a crowd on the street, seeing the familiar shock of dark, curled hair and that piercing stare, but the apparition was just that, a thought. The next had been much calmer. The casual flick of the tails of his coat as they disappeared around a shop aisle had his breath stuck in his throat like suddenly cooled iron. With stiff steps he had walked slowly down and stopped at the aisle's end. With a bracing inhaled breath, he ducked around the corner to be met by yet another empty aisle and rows of boxed and bagged foods. He had slowly learned to ignore the images, the haunting flickers in the corner of his sight, the echoing voices that made his ears perk in the silence. It wasn't real. He was just kidding himself.

But no matter what he had said, no matter what questions his therapist asked, the pitying looks he could feel from Mrs. Hudson, or the melancholy glances Mary threw his way, he could never admit about the dreams. At first they were just replays, his therapist had called it his mind's way of "desensitizing" himself. He was no stranger to nightmares. Before Sherlock, he would sometimes just hope for a bloody scene in his subconscious, the familiar scenario of dying soldiers and adrenaline and blood. But these were different. These weren't the images he'd craved, the ones he begged for just for the familiarity and rush compared to this domestic, strangling life. No, these were painful. Sherlock on the pavement, his skull half smashed in. Dreams of John's fingers in his hair were now replaced with blood-caked curls. The crackle of his phone's speaker as he heard those last, choked on words, "Goodbye, John." Falling, but instead of the thump of a body to the ground, the crack of a shot. More blood. Frantic soldiers bustling and suddenly he was in the stifling heat once more. Cries, moans of agony, but in place of the wounded soldiers was just one, one he couldn't save while blood seeped from this head as sweat trickled from every pore. And suddenly he'd be gone. Again.

Those were the nights he'd wake up screaming. Those were the nights the tears came back.

But it was the kind dreams that hurt even more, it was the kind dreams that left a lasting sting behind his eyes and an ache in his chest, that were the worst. The dreams of he and Sherlock sitting in the Chinese restaurant, laughing about how they had completely missed such an obvious clue to the case, Sherlock grabbing his hand and dragging him from the booth with a huge, warm smile on his cheeks, mirroring the warmth on John's face. The ones of Sherlock sitting with him in the palace, still wrapped in that damned sheet, making scrunched, ridiculous faces at John until he snorted out air and laughed along with his friend. The simple ones of them in the living room, late at night. A fire would be going with John in his chair and Sherlock, lying so he faced the ceiling, on the couch, tracing the patterns he already knew by heart with his eyes. The quiet, simple ones that made him content to just sit in the quiet. Yes, those left him feeling the most distant, and most lonely.

It was late. John was roused from an all too expected nightmare and looked blearily around the livingroom before shifting to look at his watch. 11:17pm. He yawned largely and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, wiping away the lonely sting he was so used to after yet another dream. They'd been happening quite a bit this week, and he'd been incredibly deprived of sleep for a while, so the nap wasn't planned. He appreciated that he couldn't remember his dream, though, just felt the residual feelings of it. Still, the fact that one man, who was dead, could still shake him made him irritably frustrated. His brow settled into a knot as he stood with a wobble, picking up his now cold tea and hobbling to the sink to rinse and replace it.

He sighed as he ran the water and emptied his cup, placing his palms against the counter after he shut off the tap, closing his eyes. He couldn't help the images clawing their way into his mind. He didn't even want to be happy; he just wanted to not be alone. Apparently that was too much to ask for. Pushing off the counter, he refilled his tea mug and shuffled back into the living room. He went to pick up the last section of the newspaper he had left and head to bed when he heard a knock at the door, not a rap, but not a patient knock, either. His brow furrowed in slight confusion at who would be visiting at this hour, but left his paper on the cushion to answer the door, tea in hand.

His mug crashed to the floor and John's heart stopped in his chest. His eyes met a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and yellows and he was lost, drifting, before he reacted and snapped back on himself like a rubberband. He closed his eyes, clenching his teeth and fists like vices, refusing to turn his head towards the door. He strained and muttered to himself harshly, "It's not REAL, John. Dropped your damn tea for a bloody hallucination. Dammit, John."

Sherlock's already widened, nervous eyes grew even larger. That wasn'- That wasn't how this was supposed to go. He had already had his reservations about this, but he couldn't stand to keep away any longer; so he'd come. But now, now John thought he wasn't there. John had been hallucinating; because of him. His mouth grew slack, his eyes refocusing in pain and guilt and longing.

He snapped forward, wrapping long, slender fingers around John's tight wrists. "John, John I need you to look at me," the familiar baritone plead with concern but strength. John just barely shook his head and kept his eyes tightly shut. Cool fingers traced from his wrist, grazing lightly over his long sleeves, and up to his cheek, and John's breath caught in his throat. It was a pressure so light it was almost not there. Gently, Sherlock guided his face so that it was facing him. With a slightly trembling jaw, John opened his eyes, finally. His pupils retracted in shock, mirroring Sherlock's own, despite the faint pinkness to his lids and the glassy sheen.

He had to admit, he was not expecting the fist to the gut. The air left his lungs in a huff as he looked down at John, who was again clenching his fists and eyes, and beginning to shout. "You fucking ASSHOLE. I fucking WAITED, for HALF a FUCKING year! You BLOODY... FUCKING... ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU!" John enunciated his words with more blows, pummeling Sherlock's midsection with clumsy punches. John sobbed harder, his strikes getting weaker until he was just sagging against Sherlock's chest, clutching the front of his shirt like a dying man's last breath. "I waited for you, Sherlock. Every night I wanted, and I waited. And I thought that- But I thought you were dead, and I- I didn't- But you never came and I just-" His sobs were choked and thick with tears soaking into Sherlock's dressing shirt. The taller man wrapped his spindly arms gently around his shaking frame, pressing firm fingers into his back, tracing slow circles and murmuring words that John couldn't understand, but he just wanted to feel the rumbling bass of his voice through his chest and hope to God this wasn't just another one of his dream. That, God, this one, this one could be the one that was real.

Sherlock moved one of his hands to the back of John's head, whose sobs were slowing to soft whimpers and occasional shakes. He tilted his head down, brushing his warm lips against his ear, murmuring, "I'm here, John. I'm not going away. I'm here, and I will never leave you again. I promise." John's whole body shuddered and he sank against the other man. Sherlock moved his hands again to wrap around his back and help to steady him, guiding them both back to John's room. Slowly, he eased off his own jacket, careful to keep in as much contact with the broken man as possible. Next he removed John's shoes. Thankfully, he was already in comfortable clothing when his unexpected visitor arrived. Sherlock held John, who had refused to look back up at his face, while he removed his own shoes, leaving him in his crumpled dressing shirt and pants. His belt could stay on, he could handle that. He shifted the smaller man onto the bed and tugged the covers up around his shoulder. When Sherlock placed his arms back around his back and tucked a leg between his own, John finally peered up at his from his chest. "John," was all Sherlock managed, staring at the other man. In a moment, he ducked his head down and pressed his bow lips to the Doctor's soft, warm ones in a soft, sweet kiss. John gazed up at him after it was broken, a light pink flush lighting his cheeks, his breaths stuttering lightly in his throat. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and managed a slight smile. Kissing his forehead, breathing in the scent of his hair and just John. Sherlock sighed in a sad, but momentarily contented way. "I love you, John. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, and I'm sorry I ever made you think that I could live without you, or that you'd have to live without me."

John's eyes went glassy again, but he pressed his lips against Sherlock's again in a harder, but longing kiss and nuzzled back into the the Detective's neck, his breath against his collarbones, making the stoic man blush for once. "God, I love you, you ass," he mumbled in an utterly broken and exhausted voice as they both drifted off into the first sleep either had had in a long, long time.


End file.
